Strangers On a Plane
by Wilusa
Summary: In the reality of my previous fics: Jeffrey and his seatmate on the flight home from Nicaragua didn't trade murders. Nevertheless, their encounter was one neither man will soon forget.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Guiding Light and its characters are the property of Procter & Gamble; no copyright infringement is intended.

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"Hello?...Hello?..._Hello!_...Is anyone on the line?"

Jeffrey O'Neill hadn't been able to record those words. But he still played them over and over, in his mind. Whenever he did, they brought a smile to his face...and tears to his eyes.

Reva's voice. Proof that she was alive, months after Edmund Winslow claimed his henchmen had killed her.

He'd longed to speak to her. But if he'd tried to convince her over the phone that _he_ was alive, she probably would have thought either that Edmund was trying to gaslight her, or that she really was losing her mind. He'd thought of disguising his voice, pretending he was conducting some kind of survey, so he could keep the woman he loved talking to him. But he'd decided not to, for fear he'd lose it and blurt out the truth.

_I'll see her soon enough_, he told himself, as he finished packing his bags in his Managua hotel room.

He'd made the same kind of call to Shayne - heard a voice he recognized, not a recorded message. So they were both alive. But he still couldn't reach Jonathan...

And he hadn't heard children in the background, with either Reva or Shayne.

_Well, Henry's probably with Marina most of the time. And I called Reva on her cell phone, not the landline - she may not have been home. If she wasn't, Colin may have been with a sitter._

_Why didn't I call the landline, at an hour when she'd probably be there? Now would be a good time. Maybe I should do that, listen for Colin..._

_No, that's silly. He might not be near the phone, anyway. And another hang-up call might worry Reva_.

If Edmund had lied about Reva and Shayne being dead, he'd probably lied about the children, too.

Probably.

Jeffrey had kept himself sane all these months by clinging to the thought that there was a very good reason for Edmund _not_ to have killed everyone he claimed.

As matters had stood, the authorities back in the States - other than, possibly, in Springfield - believed Edmund was dead, and Jeffrey had died in an accidental plane crash. But if a half-dozen of the people closest to Jeffrey had suddenly died, even in apparent accidents, law enforcement agencies would have realized who'd killed them. And Edmund would have become the object of an international manhunt - spearheaded by Jeffrey's former employers, who weren't the sort anyone would want to mess with.

He locked his newly purchased suitcase, and double-checked the tags - on it, and on the duffel bag containing evidence that he'd killed Edmund in self-defense. That point was arguable; he'd actually fired the first shot. But the evidence - very gruesome evidence - indicated self-defense.

The tags identified the luggage as belonging to one Michael Flynn, the name on the false passport he meant to use. _For the last time_, he vowed. _No more cloak-and-dagger, ever! I can't wait to use my own name, and settle down with my wife and child_.

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He took a final look at himself in the mirror.

_Not bad. I've looked better, but it could have been a damn sight worse_.

In bad shape to begin with, he'd struggled for weeks to make his way out of the jungle in eastern Nicaragua. He'd known that to get a flight home - really, to do much of anything - he'd have to get to Managua, on the west coast. Knowing the whole country was only about the size of New York State, he'd decided to hitchhike across it. He'd done that, mostly getting short rides in farmers' carts, before even trying to clean himself up and acquire decent clothes.

_Because I was afraid of what I might see after a clean-up. Just the ruined shell of the man Reva married._

At times, in the jungle and afterward, he'd been sure he was pushing himself past his physical limits. Entertained morbid fantasies about fighting his way back to the safe haven of Reva's embrace...to die there.

He'd arrived in the capital looking like Robinson Crusoe - or more likely, a castaway who hadn't coped as well as Crusoe. But his ATM cards still worked. In next to no time, he was ensconced in a comfortable hotel, freshly bathed, shaved and barbered, and the owner of a few casual outfits. Soon, he even had a couple good meals under his belt. (Though at first, he'd been so unused to normal-sized portions that he cramped and threw up.)

He was far from a hundred per cent physically. But he wasn't at death's door, either. His own educated guess, now that he'd made it this far? Aside from not-fully-healed wounds and injuries, a doctor would diagnose malnutrition and anemia...but nothing worse. He'd lucked out, hadn't eaten anything poisonous in the jungle. And he hadn't picked up any diseases, communicable or otherwise.

Not being a hundred per cent, he couldn't expect to look a hundred per cent. He was painfully thin, and there were new lines in his face. But he could stand erect, his eyes were clear, his teeth intact, and he hadn't spotted a single gray hair.

_Reva won't see me as an object of pity. And the sight of me won't scare Colin_.

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The hotel wasn't modern enough to have an automated checkout procedure. So he left a tip for the maid, gathered up his belongings, and headed for the lobby.

Where he groaned at seeing the length of the checkout line.

But he'd allowed plenty of time to make it to the airport, so he was more amused than anything else. _The desk clerk explained about this conference, told me I was getting the last room they had. It never occurred to me to ask when the conference was set to end!_

_With this bunch in line, I'll stick out like a sore thumb_.

At least there wasn't likely to be any pushing and shoving. All the other men in the lobby were respectable, well-mannered...Catholic priests.

_I wonder what they'd think if they knew I recently killed a man - by driving a dagger into his brain?_

It was a conference, he remembered, of priests from throughout Latin America. Some were Caucasian, of course; Latinos are of all races. But the only language he heard as he waited in line was Spanish. The priests near him saw his lack of a Roman collar, smiled politely, but made no attempt to engage him in conversation. _Probably pegged me as an American "tourist," _he thought, suppressing a smile. _So they assume I don't understand a word of Spanish!_

Alas, they were all such upright, moral members of the clergy that there wasn't a single spicy tidbit in any of the chatter he overheard.


	2. Chapter 2

The stream of passengers into the coach section of the New York-bound jet had slowed to a trickle, and Jeffrey had just about concluded that no one had been assigned the seat next to his.

He didn't care, one way or the other.

Which was amazing.

Throughout his hunt for Edmund he'd had to keep in mind, whenever he was traveling, that anyone who came near him might be an assassin on Edmund's payroll. That a seatmate on a plane, for example, could be waiting for him to doze off, so he could prick him with a needle containing a slow-acting poison.

Edmund had been dead long enough now that there was surely no danger.

But apparently no seatmate, either; even the trickle of arrivals had stopped. Jeffrey stretched, as best he could in the space available, and let one of his arms hang over the empty seat.

Then a final half-dozen stragglers came aboard, and one of them headed unerringly for that seat.

A man whose attire proclaimed him to be...a Catholic priest.

_Jeez. They're everywhere!_

Jeffrey and the newcomer exchanged polite nods and smiles as the man dropped into the seat.

_A few months back_, Jeffrey reflected_, I wouldn't have taken it as a given that he really __**was**__ a priest_.

He didn't question that now. He was only mildly interested in his seatmate - a trim, good-looking man, probably in his mid-fifties. Dark-haired, graying at the temples; fair-skinned.

_Was he at that conference? Did I see him in the lobby?_

It didn't matter. All that mattered was that they were - finally - about to take off.

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After they'd been airborne for a few minutes, a flight attendant made rounds. Apparently bilingual, she sized up Jeffrey and his seatmate, then asked in English whether "either of you gentlemen" wanted to rent a headset for use with the in-flight movie. They both declined. The priest asked her a few questions about their estimated arrival time, and how it might be affected by headwinds.

Then she moved on, and the priest began reading the book he'd brought with him, an English-language paperback titled _Economic Problems Confronting Latin America_. Jeffrey had an espionage thriller, but he'd thought all along that he'd be too keyed-up to read. Now he found himself wondering about his seatmate, covertly studying him.

He'd assumed the man was Latino, and had some reason for going to New York. _But he isn't Latino. Not only does he speak and read English, he speaks it without a trace of a foreign accent. He's as American as I am._

_But it would be a hell of a coincidence for a priest to be flying out of Managua today if he hadn't been at that conference. And I was told it was a __**regional**__ conference, no one there representing the U.S. or Canada._

The priest suddenly turned to him, smiled, and said, "Excuse me. Have we met?"

Caught off guard, Jeffrey said, "Uh...I don't think so."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were looking at me as if you recognized me, and I couldn't place you."

_Shit. I'm really slipping, if I can't sneak looks at a guy sitting next to me without being caught at it._

He decided the best course of action now was to 'fess up. "_I'm_ sorry, Father. The truth is, I was puzzled. I knew about a priests' conference in Managua - same hotel - and I thought it would be too much of a coincidence for a priest to be flying out today if he hadn't been attending it. But as I understood it, they didn't have any American priests, and you seem to be American."

"Oh, that!" The priest chuckled. "Yes, I am American. But I was attending the conference as a Vatican observer. I'm flying to New York because I couldn't get a direct flight from Managua to Rome.

"Come to think of it, I believe I did see you in the hotel lobby! I hope you enjoyed your stay in Nicaragua, and weren't too inconvenienced by being surrounded by priests."

"No, not at all!" _And I enjoyed killing Edmund, but I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn't thought I was about to bleed to death_. "Your work...a Vatican observer? That sounds like a very responsible position."

The priest gave a gentle shrug. "I like to think I'm trusted, on both sides of the pond. I'll take some messages to the Holy Father, make some recommendations. But I don't have any real authority."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries. Then the priest resumed reading his book, and Jeffrey made a dogged attempt to concentrate on his.

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He couldn't.

Couldn't dwell on his hoped-for blissful reunion with Reva, either. He kept worrying about Jonathan and the children. If anything had happened to them, the reunion wouldn't be "blissful."

He'd wracked his brain to come up with explanations for his loss of contact with Jonathan that didn't involve the young man being dead or maimed. He'd thought of two. Now he tried to make himself believe in them; that was harder.

One possibility: Jonathan was in jail. Maybe Edmund had framed him for some crime or other. Or maybe it had nothing to do with Edmund - maybe Phillip Spaulding had morphed into a new Alan, and railroaded Jonathan so Lizzie would have full custody of Sarah.

Either way, Jonathan would probably be physically safe until Jeffrey could get him released. And Sarah would almost certainly be safe. She'd be with Lizzie, or maybe even with Reva.

The other possibility: Edmund had succeeded in turning Jonathan against Jeffrey. Maybe by having someone send him doctored photos - photos that seemed to show Jeffrey sunning himself on a beach somewhere, cheating on Reva with other women. Could Jonathan possibly fall for that?

If he _had_ come to believe that sort of crap, would he have told Reva?

_No_, Jeffrey assured himself, _he wouldn't hurt her. If he believed the worst about me, he'd let his mother go on thinking me dead_.

They could recover from any misunderstandings, if everyone was alive and well.

_What am I going to do when I get to Springfield? Where should I go?_

_I think I should start by trying my damnedest to find Jonathan. Go to his house. If a stranger answers the door, be casual about it, but ask if they know what's happened to him. If the house seems to be unoccupied, ask a neighbor._

Jonathan had given him the address. It was in a part of town where Jeffrey didn't have any acquaintances.

Having supposedly been dead for more than a year, he didn't want to startle anyone, or have his reappearance reported in the news before he could reveal himself, gently, to Reva.

_Everyone in Springfield has heard of me - seen me on TV when I was DA. My "death" was probably headline news. But the image most people have of me will be in a suit and tie, with mustache and beard._

By the time he reached Managua, he'd been eager to get rid of every bit of his grimy, unkempt, three-month growth of beard. He'd been tempted to have his entire head shaved, but the barber had talked him out of it.

_Scrawny as I am now, clean-shaven, in a t-shirt and jeans, maybe with a cheap pair of reading glasses...there's no chance Jonathan's neighbors will recognize me. Especially since Jeffrey O'Neill is the last person they'll be expecting to see_.

But he hoped desperately that the doorbell he'd ring would be answered by the man who _would_ recognize him. Even if Jonathan was a new-minted enemy who'd sucker-punch him, and stomp on him when he was down.

He wanted to believe in a less-than-worst-case scenario. But his inner voice kept saying _Face it. Jonathan's probably dead_.

If Jonathan was dead...

_It's my fault, damn it. I got him more involved than he had to be. Reva may forgive me, but I'll never forgive myself._

_And what about the __**children?**__ Colin, Sarah, Henry...I don't know whether __**any**__ of them are safe!_

What if the children - any, or all three of them - had been kidnapped and were still missing, with no one in Springfield knowing whether they were dead or alive?

_**I killed Edmund!**__ What if he had the children, and we'll __**never**__ be able to learn what he did with them?_

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A voice said, "Excuse me."

"Wh-what?" Jeffrey snapped back from wherever he'd been - to find the priest gently gripping his arm.

"Maybe I should mind my own business," the priest said quietly. "But you seem very nervous and anxious."

"Oh! I'm sorry." He was embarrassed - appalled, really, that he'd let it show.

"Don't apologize! I just thought, maybe you're nervous about flying. Understandable, when we hear of so many dangers - terrorists, overworked pilots, bird strikes. But statistically, the odds are way against any given flight's having problems.

"I was thinking, if you're nervous, it might help you if we talk. Chat, about anything, to get your mind off it."

_Thank, um, God, he isn't offering to hold my hand and pray with me!_

"Thank you, Father." He managed a smile. "I was really worried about family problems. But about flying..."

He realized he actually did want to be distracted by conversation. So he said, "I survived a plane crash a while back. Maybe, when I've solved my other problems and have time to think about it, I _will_ find that it's left me with some fears about flying."

He knew it hadn't. He'd piloted other small planes since the crash. He just wanted to make conversation - and on some level, enjoy the fact that he now _could_ safely divulge some details of his personal life to a stranger.

But the priest's reaction wasn't what he expected. He stared at him, then said in an awed voice, "I guess it _is_ a 'small world.' I once survived a plane crash, too."

"You did? You're right, that's quite a coincidence." Remembering that the other man was going all the way to Rome, he added, "Seems like it didn't leave _you_ with any fear of flying."

"No." A small smile, almost a grimace. "Actually, the plane crash was what led me to become a priest."

Jeffrey thought he must have imagined the grimace. He said politely, "I think I can understand that. You wanted to show your gratitude for God's having spared you?"

The priest shook his head. "No. I wasn't grateful. Didn't have any desire to go on living. My pregnant fiancee died in that plane crash! Along with my father, and the pilot."

Jeffrey couldn't think of any response that wasn't inadequate. "That's...that's terrible. I'm very sorry."

_Just those deaths - a private or corporate jet? Huh. If he's a rising star in the Church, it stands to reason he came from a privileged background._

Feeling he had to say more, he continued awkwardly, "You must have loved your fiancee very much."

But the other man was shaking his head again. "No. I didn't love her at all! And _that's_ why I became a priest - at least part of the reason. I was trying to atone for my guilt, for having gotten an innocent woman killed when I didn't love her. The plane crash was an accident, but she was only there because of me." He paused, then said, "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I've never admitted it to anyone. I guess it really is easiest to talk to a total stranger, someone you'll never see again."

If the priest was surprised by the turn the conversation had taken, Jeffrey was flabbergasted.

_After all that's happened in my life lately, I find myself talking to a priest. And I feel like I have to help __**him**__ deal with his guilt feelings!_

_Unbelievable_.

Aloud, he said, "I think you're being too hard on yourself, Father -"

The priest gave a shaky laugh, then said, "Hey. The way this talk is going, your calling me 'Father' is a little ridiculous, don't you think?"

"Uh -" In truth, Jeffrey always felt foolish calling another man that. _At least this one isn't young enough to be my son_. "If you'd be okay with 'Reverend' -"

"No, no. Right now, we're just two guys on a plane. Call me Glee."

_"Glee?"_ Jeffrey didn't think he'd heard correctly. _If it really is "Glee," it's a damned ironic nickname for someone who's had that kind of tragedy in his life_.

"Short for Gleason," the priest explained. "And yes, that is my first name. My mother's family name."

Jeffrey extended his hand, saying, "Fine. I'm Jeff." No one ever called him that. But under the circumstances, with the priest having volunteered a one-syllable nickname, he knew he'd seem standoffish if he didn't do the same. _And we'll be going our separate ways in New York, so he won't see "Jeff" claiming Michael Flynn's luggage_.

After they'd exchanged an awkward handshake, Jeffrey said, "Look, I may be out of line here - it's not like I'm trying to 'counsel' you! But it really sounds to me as if you've been too hard on yourself.

"Maybe you weren't in love with that young woman. But I'm guessing you became engaged because you'd accidentally gotten her pregnant, right? So you were being conscientious, trying hard to do the right thing."

Oops. Wrong again.

Glee sighed, then said softly, "No, it wasn't like that at all.

"I suppose telling a stranger is really just like telling _myself_. Spelling it out for myself all over again, acknowledging what happened and recognizing my mistakes...

"There was another woman before Janet, a woman I truly did love. The only one I've _ever_ loved. She broke up with me. It was entirely my fault - I'd been too controlling, and I'd kept secrets from her, things my bride-to-be had a right to know.

"I saw the error of my ways. I was willing to change.

"Given time, I could have won her back. But I didn't get the chance. There was another guy, who'd been in and out of her life, off and on, for years. Whenever she'd had a bad experience with someone else, he was prepared to swoop in. And the minute I was out of the picture, he did it again -

"Hey, is something wrong? What did I say?"

The only thing worse than the jolt Jeffrey had just received was the fact that he hadn't been able to mask his reaction. "It...it sort of reminded me of a problem I may have. One I hadn't let myself face."

_"There was another guy, who'd been in and out of her life, off and on, for years. Whenever she'd had a bad experience with someone else, he was prepared to swoop in."_

Blake had once warned Jeffrey about Josh, using almost those exact words.

He knew from Jonathan that as of six months ago, Josh had been away from Springfield for a long time, supervising a construction project in Tulsa. Reva hadn't been dating anyone, even platonically; and she still wore her wedding ring. Even wore _Jeffrey's_ wedding ring, on her left thumb!

He'd been careful never to ask Jonathan about any of those things. Jonathan had updated him every week or so, without being asked.

But six months was a long time, with Reva believing herself a widow.

_"Whenever she'd had a bad experience with someone else, he was prepared to swoop in."_

Jeffrey realized now that he'd been in denial - never letting himself think, consciously, of the possibility that he might return home to find he'd lost Reva to Josh. The denial had been a survival mechanism.

_God help me, __**that's**__ why I didn't call Reva on the landline! I was afraid Josh would answer. Or worse - maybe I'd get a cheery answering machine message saying, "Hi! You've reached Cross Creek, home of Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Lewis!"_

_Would it have been worse to hear that message in Josh's voice, or Reva's?_

He pulled himself together. His shirt was suddenly damp with sweat, but he managed to tell the anxious Glee, "I'm all right. Glad you did remind me of...that thing.

"Please go on. You lost the woman you loved to the other guy?"

"Yes. And I've always been a proud man. So I didn't want her to see how badly I was hurt. I proposed to Janet - and got her pregnant, deliberately - just to show the woman I loved that I was going on with my life, happily, without her.

"I wound up going on with it, _un_happily, without my father, Janet, _or_ the baby I'd made."

"I'm truly sorry." Jeffrey had finally thought of something else to say. "I can understand your feeling guilty. But I'm sure you've done enough good in your life, as a priest, to more than make up for it."

"Maybe." Glee tried to smile, but it was one of the least convincing smiles Jeffrey had ever seen. "Thank you for listening, and caring. Would it help you to open up to me about _your_ problems?"

Jeffrey didn't think it would "help." But he hadn't had anyone he could really talk to since he'd lost contact with Jonathan. The connection he and Glee had made seemed to have just the right combination of camaraderie and anonymity (they'd exchanged only first names). So he said, "Yes, thank you, it might."

Weighing his words carefully, he said, "First, I want to assure you that I'm not a criminal. I'm actually a lawyer - back home, I've even been the DA.

"But I've been involved in some strange situations lately. _Dangerous_ situations.

"I don't want to be any more specific than that. But one of the things that's troubling me is that something terrible may have happened to my stepson. I won't know for sure till I get home...but my stepson may even be dead. And if he is, it's because he became more involved with the action than he had to be, to help me."

Glee mulled that over for a few seconds. Then he asked, "Is your stepson a juvenile?"

Jeffrey felt his eyebrows shoot up. "No, of course not! He's a grown man - old enough that he's a widower, with a child of his own."

"Did he understand the danger he was getting into?"

Now Jeffrey saw where Glee was going. "Yes, he understood. All too well."

"Then...I know you'll blame yourself if something bad has happened. But your stepson was a mature man who chose to help you with whatever it was, knowing the risk. It's not all your fault."

Jeffrey nodded slowly. Glee hadn't said anything he didn't already know; and it didn't make him feel any better. He couldn't convey all the nuances of the situation - all the reasons he blamed himself - without telling his new friend the whole story. And he wasn't willing to do that.

He decided he wouldn't mention the threat to the children. It wouldn't make sense without more background than he was prepared to provide.

But there was something else he would mention. "I have to tell you why I...had a reaction...when you said you'd lost the woman you loved to another man. A man who'd been in and out of her life for years, 'swooping in' whenever she became available.

"I've been away from home for a long time, and I realize now that I may have lost my _wife_ to a man just like that! There _is_ a man like that in our lives. I'd been in denial, not letting myself think about him. The state I'd been in the past few months, physically and mentally, I might not have survived if I'd had to live with that thought before now.

"But I'm not saying my wife would have been unfaithful, knowingly betrayed me. We were very much in love. It's a different situation, because...well, I told you I've been involved with something pretty strange. For more than a year, I've had to let my wife believe I was dead!"

Glee's jaw dropped. _"What?"_

"I know, it sounds crazy! Not like anything that happens to people in real life. I still don't want to go into the details. But I didn't fake my death deliberately. Remember the plane crash I said I was in? I was forced - never mind by whom - to let my wife, and everyone else back home, think I'd died. That stepson I mentioned is the only one who knew the truth.

"I can surface now, and I'm headed home. But God knows what I'll find. Even if everyone's all right, I may have lost my wife and, for all practical purposes, _our_ son."

Glee still looked stunned. After a few seconds' silence, he said, "You may have a hard time believing this. The parallels in our lives are eerie. I've let my next of kin believe _I'm_ dead!"

"You..._what?_" Jeffrey was beginning to wonder whether this conversation was real, or a bizarre dream.

Glee hastened to say, "There are differences, of course. My next of kin is just a half-brother."

Jeffrey was too shocked to ask questions, but Glee went on with his story. "I was in a coma for a while, in a European hospital, after my plane crash. When I came out of it, I decided to let my brother go on believing I was in an _irreversible_ coma. I was well enough fixed financially that I could fake it. We'd never been close...the few times he came to see me, he was shown another man who was in a vegetative state." He grimaced. "Believe me, people in that condition look terrible, nothing like the way they looked in their active lives. No one wants to look at them too long...

"After a while, my brother was told I'd died. Informed that I'd made all the necessary arrangements long before, and had been quietly buried, in Rome."

Jeffrey found his voice, and asked, _"Why?"_

"Like I said, we'd never been close. And my brother didn't need any help from me financially. His family was well off.

"But the main reason I didn't want a continuing relationship - he was still regularly seeing the woman I'd been in love with. I didn't want _her_ to know I was still alive, after the mess I'd made with Janet."

Jeffrey had a sudden suspicion. "Was your brother the man who'd taken her away from you?"

But Glee shook his head. "No, it wasn't that bad! But they lived in the same town."

Then he rubbed a hand over his eyes, hesitated...and finally spoke again. "There is more, though. I _had_ a _son_. But he's dead now. Killed himself.

"I thought he'd be better off with his mother and stepfather, without me complicating his life. The way it turned out, I guess I was wrong."

At that point they hailed the flight attendant, and both of them ordered drinks.

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As they neared their destination, Jeffrey said somberly, "I've decided I'll put my wife's feelings first, no matter what. If she's found happiness with someone else, I won't stand in their way.

"But I _will_ insist on being a part of my son's life! Even if I've lost Reva."

His saying her name wasn't a slip. He knew he could safely say it now. And even in this context, thinking of losing her, he'd felt a sudden need to hear that beloved name spoken aloud.

But he felt Glee, sitting beside him, stiffen.

Jeffrey looked at him, and saw a strange expression on the priest's face. "What?"

Glee relaxed. "I knew there was something about that name. Your wife's name - Reva? I thought I'd heard it recently.

"But I'm remembering now that I saw it in an article I read about Hindu deities. It's the name of a goddess! Is your wife Indian?"

Despite his anxieties, Jeffrey grinned. "Indian? No, far from it. Wait a minute, I'll show you." He fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out the waterproof packet containing his important papers. Handling it with care - so Glee wouldn't see the half-dozen false passports - he produced a photo of Reva and baby Colin. "My family!" he said proudly.

"Wonderful! Your wife is lovely. And decidedly not Indian.

"Ah...from what you said about having an adult stepson, I expected your own son to be older. Is this photo recent?"

"Taken a little over a year ago." He felt himself tearing up, as he always did when he looked at it.

"Hard to believe that beautiful woman has a grown son..." Glee had a sudden need to clear his throat. Then he said softly, "I hope...and I'll _pray_...that all goes well for you."

"Thank you...Father." Jeffrey kissed both faces in the photo before he reluctantly put it away.

Just as the pilot announced they were approaching New York.

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Rev. Gleason Malone - aka Kyle Gleason, aka Kyle Sampson - did some more drinking in an airport bar.

Everything he'd told Jeff about his past was true. But there was something he _hadn't_ told him, something that had doubtless helped trigger that ramble about his misspent youth: he'd been thinking of leaving the priesthood.

Not for any of the usual reasons.

Gleason Malone, son of a cardinal and a whorehouse madam, had begun obsessing about becoming the first American pope.

_I could have done it, too_.

But then he'd realized he hadn't changed: he was just as ambitious as he'd been when he was twenty-five years younger.

_No man who craves the papacy deserves it._

_No man who craves the papacy should even be a priest_.

He'd pretty much made up his mind to take his ambitious self elsewhere. On the plane, he'd been reading _Economic Problems Confronting Latin America_ from the point of view not of a priest, but of an entrepreneur.

Then he'd struck up a conversation with a man whose life had eerie parallels to his - and ultimately, discovered the most amazing parallel of all.

_So after Josh won Reva, he couldn't keep her! I was a fool to give up when I did_.

He realized now that he should have kept track of events in Springfield. He'd deliberately _not_ let himself learn what was going on there. All he'd known before today was that his brother Billy was alive and well, and his son Ben...wasn't.

_I can keep abreast of things easily now, online._

_I could go after Reva again myself..._

_**No.**__ Not if I learn she's still with Jeff. He struck me as a good man. And by some late-life miracle, they have a baby._

_But if she's with Josh..._ He couldn't see the malicious smile on his face. _Then it's...open season._

He finished his drink, paid his tab, and strode to the ticket counter to make an exchange.

He'd decided he wasn't going to Springfield. Not now.

But he wasn't going to Rome, either.

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Jeffrey O'Neill didn't have a seatmate on his next flight, to the airport nearest Springfield.

He was glad he didn't, because he kept that photo in his hands most of the way. Occasionally, he even talked to it.

Not, of course, out loud.

_Remember, Reva, the fun we had after I looked up the origin of your name? Well, the supposed origin - I know Hawk said he and your mother had just intended it as a variant of "Reba."_

_But "Reva" is supposedly an alternative name for Rati, a Hindu goddess who's the wife of Kama, the "winged god of love." I insisted you'd been meant to marry a winged god of love, and you'd had to keep marrying different guys till you found the right one. __**Me**__, 'cause I'm the only one of your husbands who's a licensed pilot._

_Good fun. But those are extremely minor deities. No way would a Catholic priest just happen to know that origin of the name "Reva," if he hadn't looked it up for the same reason I did._

_When Glee asked if you were Indian, I knew he was trying to get me to show him a picture. But I did, so I could watch his expression. And yes, he recognized you._

_I've been trying to remember who I know in Springfield who has a connection with the name Gleason. And just now, I came up with it. I'm sure I heard somewhere that Josh and Billy are only half-brothers, and Billy's mother was named Gleason._

_I'm afraid I'll have way more urgent problems to deal with when I get home. But sooner or later, I'll need to have a talk with Billy about his __**other**__ half-brother!_

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The End


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